


tell me what to do

by winterfold



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, White House Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:33:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfold/pseuds/winterfold
Summary: You tell me what to do, Tommy… It’s Russia day, I don’t have a lot to do, then it’s Evan McMullin, I don’t have a lot to do there either, so I’m just gonna chime in when I want and you tell me what to do.— Ep 59, Keepin' It 1600





	tell me what to do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joshlymanwalkandtalk (Joshlymanwalkandtalk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joshlymanwalkandtalk/gifts).



It starts, like most things, because Jon can’t stop talking.

“So I’m supposed to bullshit something about jobs and the future, which I can do in my sleep, but all the time I keep thinking, god, what’s your _problem_ , is the idea of our entire species drowning in our sleep not good enough for you?”

“Hmm,” Tommy says.

Tommy’s deep in a file folder of papers that look important, but can’t be _that_  important because a) he brought them home, and b) he’s reading them where Jon can see. Still, Tommy never does anything by halves, so he’s got his pen to take notes with, and his sleeves are rolled up halfway to his elbows, and he’s got one hand pressed to the side of his temple. He’s probably got a headache, or the beginnings of one. He’s definitely not going to do anything except try to will it away with the power of his great, ridiculous mind.

Jon is wearing an old t-shirt and boxers, because he’s found pants to be detrimental to speechwriting, and he is also lying across the entire width of the sofa.

“I’m just saying, what does it _take_ ,” Jon says as he reluctantly heaves himself up and wanders over to the fridge. “I mean, you’d think cute animals would do it, but no, we’ve had polar bears and penguins all over the fucking posters and still, sorry, can’t say ‘carbon taxes’ in middle America. What the hell’s cuter than apex predators and giant feathered tuxedos?”

They’re running low on beer, but whatever. He takes one for himself and leaves the other one at Tommy’s elbow. “Maybe if we do children? ‘Help, my grandpa loved pickup trucks and now Florida’s underwater.’ Though you know what, one less disproportionately influential swing state, not necessarily a bad thing—”

“Lovett,” Tommy says tersely, “shut up.”

Jon shuts up.

Jon also discovers a fucking _problem_.

Tommy turns around half a second later to say, “God, I’m sorry,” and discovers the same problem, which is that Jon is on the sofa in his boxers with a hard-on because Tommy just told him to shut up.

Tommy stops apologizing. There’s an agonizing beat of silence before Jon’s mouth is opening again.

“You want me to take the shorts off,” Jon says on autopilot, “because you’re staring real hard but I’m pretty sure even you don’t have x-ray vision—”

Tommy’s entire face goes red, and then he throws himself up and sweeps up all the papers into his arms and _flees_. It’d be funny, like one of those cartoon characters leaving a Tommy-shaped dust cloud in its wake, but Jon’s still hard and there’s something lodged in his throat he can’t quite swallow down even after he’s finished off his beer, and then the one Tommy left behind.

Great. The world’s fucked because America thinks hybrids are for kale smoothie-drinking, hemp shorts-wearing yuppies, and Jon’s life is fucked because his dick has a thing for stupid unobtainable straight boys.

———

In the interests of not making this weird—well, weird _er_ —Jon doesn’t jerk off to the memory of Tommy and the precise, clipped shape of his words.

He thinks about it, though. He’s only human.

———

Tommy can’t look Jon in the eyes for like a week, so Jon figures he knows how this is going to go. Tommy’s gonna move out. He’s gonna be polite about it, because he’s still _Tommy_ , tell Jon not to worry about Tommy’s share of the rent and that he can keep the sofa they bought together, and then maybe they’ll shake hands good-bye because in the end Tommy’s just another straight guy who _says_  he’s fine with gay people but gets spooked and runs when things get too gay for him.

It wasn’t even like Jon had meant to shove it in his face. He hadn’t _known_.

It takes another couple of days for Tommy to get it together (or finish scanning apartment listings, for all Jon knows), and then he comes over to Jon’s room and knocks on the half-opened door with a lot of shuffling and clearing of throats.

“Listen,” he says. “We should talk.”

Jon’s lying on top of his bed, in a pair of boxers, because goddamn if Tommy’s gonna take his best speechwriting tool away from him. “Sure,” he says. “I just wanna say, though, don’t you think this is a little homophobic?”

“What?”

“I mean, it’s all so progressive of you,” Jon says. “You’re friends with a gay guy! You even live with him! But then you find out he has a dick after all and suddenly it’s all, sayonara, nice knowing you, don’t call me I’ll call you. It doesn’t make you better than the people with the signs and the assholes on the Hill with their million marriage amendments, you know that, it just means you’re more polite about it.”

Tommy blinks slowly at him. “Lovett—”

“Oh, whatever,” Jon says. “I’m not gonna move out, so it’s gonna be you, fine, just—leave.”

He flops over, his back to the door, and waits for Tommy to go.

“This is so typical,” Tommy says. “You, jumping to the worst possible conclusion—”

“What, you’re gonna tell me I’m wrong?” Jon nearly snarls, sitting back up, because he’s tired, and even aside from being stupidly hot Tommy was a hell of a friend and he’s gonna miss that—is missing it already. “Fine, tell me I’m wrong and you’re a nice guy and this has nothing to do with anything. Go on, get it all off your chest.”

“First of all,” Tommy says, “I’m not moving out, what the hell.”

Okay, so Jon’s not expecting that one.

“And second—I mean, look, you liked it, right?”

“Are you—is this an ego thing? We were both there! You were staring for like, a good ten seconds!”

“It’s not an ego—jesus, could you just please stop thinking—” Tommy presses a hand to his face, which is going red. His forehead, the bits of his cheek Jon can see between his fingers, the tips of his ears. “I just wanted to check, because I—did.”

“Did what?”

“Liked it.”

That part comes a bit mumbled, so it takes Jon a minute to parse. “But you,” he says dumbly. “You’re straight.”

“I,” Tommy says. “Not—entirely.”

“’Not entirely’? Like, you kissed a boy once and didn’t hate it, or a guy gave you a handjob when you were drunk, exactly just how not-entirely are we talking about here?”

Tommy says, pained, “You want me to think about other guys while I’m trying to proposition you?”

“Is _that_  what you’re doing?” Jon wants to laugh. “Tommy, this is like, the worst proposition in the history of propositions, and I’ve heard a lot of them. None of them mine, obviously, because I’m a wordsmith, as you know. But seriously. Lots.”

“Sorry!” Tommy throws up his hands. “You started out by accusing me of homophobia, that kind of threw me for a loop.”

Well, Jon’s not gonna admit that he was _wrong_. “I’m full of surprises,” he says, and gives himself a minute to get it together by deliberately running his eyes down Tommy’s whole body, framed by the doorway like some kind of art piece. “Okay, well, you can like, keep propositioning me now, if you want.”

Tommy blows out a breath. “Christ.” Then he shakes his head and puts his determined face on, the one that says he really wants something, and that's—a lot. “So hey, Lovett—”

“Or,” Jon says. “You can come in and just tell me to suck your dick.”

Tommy goes beautifully, violently red again. He stumbles forward, one step, then two, and elbows the door shut. There’s literally no one else in the apartment, and Jon’s gonna make fun of him for that later.

But in the meantime—

“I’m just saying, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

Tommy clears his throat. “Lovett,” he says, then pauses. “Jon.” He moves around carefully until he’s standing at the foot of Jon’s bed. “You should—come over here.”

"Can you do it a little firmer?” Jon says, even as he’s sliding off his covers. “Like, really mean it, Tommy, come on.”

Tommy licks his lips; swallows. “Get on your knees,” he says, and oh, that’s better: a little hoarse, harsh around the edges. Jon can feel his dick starting to stir in interest.

He goes to his knees.

**Author's Note:**

> So that quote happened on my dash and things, er, developed. Keep things chill, come say hi @undeployed on tumblr if you'd like.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] tell me what to do](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445018) by [klb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klb/pseuds/klb)




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